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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614129">the death of one virgil storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalexistences/pseuds/fictionalexistences'>fictionalexistences</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>murder on my mind [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Murder, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Cults, i love how that's a tag, mentions of dead people</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:33:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalexistences/pseuds/fictionalexistences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of 12, Virgil was initiated.</p>
<p>By the age of 15, he was a murderer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>TW: cults, mentions of child abuse, mentions of murder, non-graphic murder</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Morality | Patton Sanders, endgame Anxiety | Virgil/Creativity | Roman/Logic | Logan/Morality | Patton, endgame LAMP</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>murder on my mind [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704841</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblesarcasm/gifts">visiblesarcasm</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When Virgil was younger, he used to think he had some sort of curse. His older brother died hours after his birth, a year later his uncle and aunt’s plane crashed while they were on their way to visit, and even his hamster died a week after he got it. It was a childish belief, but when he brought it up, everyone just laughed at him.</p><hr/><p class="p1">It all started July 20th, on a summer’s eve.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Dad, are we almost at the hospital?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Mr. Storm glanced back at his son, and pointed a rare smiled at him. Dad used to smile a lot more, before mom started coming home hours past curfew and reeking of alcohol. Now dad only ever grinned when he was with his ‘friends’.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“We’ll be there in a couple minutes, probably.”, he answered. It wasn’t the last time that dad would lie to him, but Virgil wouldn’t learn that until much later. For now, he watched over the slumped over figure two seat away from him. The twelve-year old brushed the hair out of his mother’s face. She didn’t move. If not for the weak pulse he felt on her wrist, Virgil would have thought her to be dead.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Virgil stared at her, eyes glossed over. Sure, his mother had her good moments, but much of their relationship was filled with bruises and yelling. Since the start of her drinking, he had been much more familiar with blacking out and tending to injuries than he would like. While normal middle schoolers were fighting with their friends, Virgil was being introduced to the cold floor of his mother’s apartment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His dad was better. Rarely present, always working to pay the bills and fund his wife’s drinking. But at least it was better than beating his son six ways from Sunday.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The only real family members he had were his grandparents. His grandma homeschooled him, and whenever he was feeling upset, his grandpa would bake him feel-good cookies. Virgil smiled at the thought. His grandma was always such a klutz in the kitchen. When he was younger, he used to giggle at his grandma’s attempt to cook dinner. It usually ended with take out from the Chinese place a couple streets down.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Of course, he had to go and ruin that too, because now, they were dead. Virgil was home alone when the police arrived, his mother out drunk before noon and his father on a business trip. A car crash, they said. He wasn’ttoo sure what happened next. He tuned out the rest of the condolences and questions, focusing on not breaking out in sobs in front of strangers.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">That night, Virgil cried so much that he thought he couldn’t anymore. That he had drained out all the tears in his body. Later that night, his mother proved him wrong.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">So now he just existed. A breathing corpse. Lying in bed all day and eating only when it was unbearable to not. Choking back tears when he was beaten and letting them rush out like twin waterfalls when it was all over.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Welcome to the death of Virgil Storm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the beginning of the end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When they arrived, it was clear that this was not a hospital. Instead, they arrived at an eerily quiet building a little ways off the main road. However, his dad just got out and motioned for Virgil to bring his mother. Virgil brought her out of the car and his dad helped him out.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Where are we?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Dad ignored him in favor of carrying Virgil’s mother bridal style towards the building. She didn’t move, even shift or groan, in the slightest.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that she was dead. But Virgil knew that his mother died a long, long time ago. Somewhere between Virgil’s birth and the moment alcohol first graced her lips, the mother he barely knew died. And he knew that they blamed him. For good reason too. Virgil may as well add it to his kill count.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He hurried next to his dad, who had dropped his wife on the floor next to the door. Dad knocked on the door three times, each knock several seconds apart. By now, Virgil was standing behind him, staring at his mother. She was paler than a ghost, dyed blond locks framing her face. It was the most peaceful Virge had seen her in a long time. Then again, most of the time he had seen her, she was drunk or cursing him out for killing Aunt Margret and Dante. His parents had a thing for naming their kids after famous poets.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His dad picked up his mother again, and the three of them were ushered inside by a couple black-and-white clad men.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The inside of the building was... sketchy. It seemed like a place that housed a crime syndicate, not a place you’d bring your dying wife and young child.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The people inside were all rushing around, but the maybe-hundred people barely made a noise. It was eerily quiet, with a couple murmurs, but that was really it. The women were running around doing what looked to be household chores, like laundry. Even at the delicate age of twelve, Virgil knew gender roles were stupid, though that may have been due to his grandparents’ influence.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">There were some men sitting in the center of the room. Most of the murmuring seemed to be coming from them. The noises only increased when they noticed the Storms making their way over. A woman who had been waiting on the men came over to greet them.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Pleasure to see you again, James.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Ah, Fiona! How great to see you!” His dad smiled, but it was no where near to the one he gave in the car. This one was more predatory. It reminded Virgil of his mother, and made him want to step back. However, he felt a chilling presence from right behind him. Virgil froze, refusing to turn around.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His dad seemed to notice it too, but instead of tensing like his son had, he relaxed. Virgil’s mother was handed over to their escorts, and his dad grabbed Fiona’s wrist and whispered something in Fiona’s ear. She nodded and briskly walked away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The escorts felt for a pulse on his mother’s wrist. For a second, Virgil thought she’d be rushed into another room, but the escorts only bowed their heads towards them and whispered their condolences.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Oh.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Ah, James!” The voice was oddly calming, smooth and firm. It was the kind of voice that could convince you to consider jumping off a cliff. At least, twelve year old Virgil definitely thought so. It was similar to his grandfather’s, and how his grandpa always knew what to say or do whenever Virgil was down. Comparing your deceased grandpa to a cult leader was kinda awkward, but the similarities were almost jumping out at him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Odd.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The young man —brunette, hazel eyed, maybe 7 or 8 years older than Virgil himself— went to pat Virgil’s father on the shoulder. The older man returned it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Have you been keeping up with your prayers?” The stranger spoke unwaveringly, as if they were old friends.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Three times a week, my friend.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Well, maybe they were. Virgil’s dad smiled —wow, he was smiling much more than usual— at the brunette. Unusual, considering his wife had just passed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Then, Mr. Storm was gesturing to Virgil.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Son, meet Caleb Tapanes. He’s a good guy. Helped our family a lot during... hard times. You can trust him.” Though Caleb was the one being introduced, it seemed that Virgil was the one being analyzed. The older teen scanned Virgil, as if judging his worth. Virgil fought back the urge to squirm. The suit-clad man stared him down, towering over the boy.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Caleb —Virgil was going to call him that, because he didn’t look old enough to be called Mr. and because no one could tell him off about it— stuck out a hand for Virgil to shake. The younger stared at it for a couple seconds, hesitant, before giving him a hand shake.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“My name is Virgil.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Caleb finally crouched down, just to be on eye level with him. He wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or grateful, so he settled for a mix of both.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Virgil, like the poet?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The boy nodded. Caleb smiled, unfaltering even at the younger boy’s aloofness.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“<em>Through pain I’ve learned to comfort suffering men.</em> I happen to be a fan of his work.” The brunette teen smiled dazzlingly at Virgil, as if certain his charm would get to him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Virgil just nodded again. Caleb kept on going.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I suppose you wanna know what’s going on, right?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“My job is… well, perhaps it’d be easier to just say it outright. It’s like ripping off a bandage, ya know?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Well, Virgil did know how it felt to be hit and beat till he was black and blue, so which had to count for something.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I run a cult.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The words hung in the air for a couple seconds, as Virgil blinked at Caleb. Sure, it was an unusual thing to admit to someone, though it did make sense. The sketchy location, the apparent hierarchy they seemed to have, etc.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As much sense as it made, it just dumped boatloads more questions into Virgil’s brain.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Why were they at a cult building? Was his dad <em>in</em> the cult? What were they going to do with his mother? Are they going to kill him now, or torture him for information he doesn’t even have?!</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Caleb, though, (and by extension, the cult) did neither of those things. Instead, he nodded to Virgil’s dad, took Virgil’s hand, and led him in the direction that Fiona had went earlier. He could feel the stares of the people —the cult members— around him. Virgil did his best to ignore them. It seemed that the hallway led to a series of rooms. They were all labeled from 101 to 110,if the sign was to be believed. The hallway was lit just as brightly as the main area had been. There was no one in sight.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He was lead to room 104. It resembled a small motel room. Virgil turned to ask, but in true villain fashion, Caleb was gone. He mentally rolled his eyes, and he moved to lay down on the bed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">For the first time in a while, Virgil went to sleep, his eyes dry.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apologies for the shortness! I wrote the first three chapters yesterday and edited them today, cause I didn't wanna do it all at once. So this happened. Yup. I wanted to get this out as soon as possible to pressure myself into finishing it sooner, but looking back on previous unfinished fics... it isn't working out so well.</p><p>I looked back at the Prologue and "six days from Sunday" and I genuinely wanna know who uses that besides the FF7 remake and me.</p><p>Toodles!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. acceptance & initiation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">In the two days he stayed there, Virgil made it his mission to get as much information he could. It took him a lot of asking around (see: annoying) the members for Virgil to get a good feel for the group. It was your normal sort of cult, if cults could be called that. A group of sexist, religious purists who believed that the world had to be cleansed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The men were supposed to protect. They provided for the family and made sure they were safe. Women were to do all the housework, have children, etc. They were the “caretakers”, dependent on their “protectors”.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was stupid. Everything about it was stupid. But here he was, sitting in a dimly lit bedroom, alone. Maybe mourning his mother? Do you mourn people who abused you? Is that a thing?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He didn’t feel relief or sadness that she died. Virgil didn’t feel much of anything.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Virgil groaned and flopped onto the bed. At least the mattress was comfortable...</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was the only warning he got for Caleb entering the room. He looked the same as before, only dressed more casually.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was the sort of stupid, barely out of reach, idea that people could latch onto and fight for, especially with a charismatic leader to bring them together. Lucky for them, Caleb Tapanes fit the bill perfectly. Charismatic, confident, and very adept at hiding his mental instability because there was no way that someone who became a cult leader at 19 didn’t home some kind of emotional baggage.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry about your mother.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Virgil nodded at Caleb, expecting that sot of answer. However, the man didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down next to him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You can cry, Virgil. I know that losing your mother must have been hard on you.” He seemed so genuine that Virgil could’ve believed him. </p><p class="p1">It seems that his dad hadn’t informed the cult of his mother’s habits. Virgil wasn’t about to either, but it did come as a surprise. He glanced down at the tattoo on Caleb’s arm.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>1.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He hadn’t been looking for it before, but he had seen glimpses of other numbers on people’s wrists.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It didn’t really hit him until that moment. That this really <em>was</em> a cult.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">But even knowing this, Virgil let him Caleb smile gently down at him. It was oddly paternal, more so than his father had ever been towards Virgil.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Trust me.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">So he did.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Hours later, Virgil sat in a dark room, surrounded by candles. Other members dressed in black and white robes murmured some sort of incantation. A man sat next to him, tattooing a number on his wrist. Number 149.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">At the age of twelve, Virgil was initiated.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">This was the beginning of his new life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm currently working on the next chapter (the one thing insomnia is good for) but knowing me, it'll take a couple days, but I'll get there eventually.</p><p>Hope you enjoyed it so far! Kudos &amp; comments are welcome.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's been a while since I wrote angst, so forgive me- </p>
<p>To the bottom, I hope you hated it~</p>
<p>Everyone else, stay safe; wash your hands.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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